The unrelenting army of angry raindrops attacked the windows, sounding like stones being pelted at the sturdy panes of glass. The misty fog that had settled down well below on the ground obfuscated the entire view beyond. The periodic warning of the thunder shook the porcelain plates on the shelves to some extent. The weather froze the entire arena, painting a picture of a heavy downpour in the middle of winter. The aged windows, part of even older wooden walls, and elderly doors, altogether enclosed a family of three: a man, his wife, and their son. The dried bunch of brown roses in the vase owned a strong resemblance with their living, and, moreover, defined their existence with an untold expression of piercing agony. The elegantly-carved wooden clock adorned the wall. A bronze-embellished miniature statue of an aggrieved angel sat at the corner of the mantelpiece. Dusty cobwebs added beauty to its years. Ancient books of a bare count stood obliquely, in a posture depicting that they would fall flat the very moment. Spiders of all sorts had brought out their artistic talent throughout the length of the house, giving it the costume of an excavated museum. Giant waves of thoughts flooded his mind, as the man stood leaning against the wall of the living room, looking out the uncleaned windows. Obviously, he was struggling to hold back his overwhelming thoughts within the territories.

Solomon Maxwell, was a cobbler, by profession; a thinker, by instinct; a laborious worker, by habit; an eternal roof, as a husband; a caring, loving, responsible father; a coin of sour misfortune in the game of circumstances. His wife, Madison, was a portrait of penury. Yet, a smile she bore that lit the doomed sky; a smile that provoked hope even in the darkest of times. The affection with which they underwent the burdens of life, hand in hand, was like an immovable layer of rocks standing alone amidst the sea, patiently tolerating all the massive waves being thrown upon them. But, as steady with a firm heart as always. Together, they provided a so-called comfortable life for their son, Richard. The child waded through the river in the direction it flew. Nothing that the seedling could do of considerable help than to understand the situation of his family. Richard stood beside Abraham, quiet as a flame of fire, his eyes like that of a curious lion cub. Madison stormed in, soaked wet, clothes in her hand.

"The rain is heavy. You better not work today," said she, gazing at Solomon, then laid the clothes on the chair nearby. Solomon turned away from the windows, solemnly.

"Yes. No business on a day like this," came the reply, as he calmly turned to face the foggy outside once again.

"What if someone comes today, father?" questioned Richard, looking earnestly at Solomon, shivering. The fireplace was as cold as the moist twigs outside.

"Then, gentlemen would have to ride boats to get their boots mended. Look at the pour of rain," smiling, he pointed towards the exterior, holding the little shoulder of Richard with one hand, and was reciprocated by an innocent grin in return. It was all what Solomon needed.

A few hours passed before the rains decided to cease. Solomon's mind was fluctuating.

"The right moment to leave," he resolved, at the end. Richard had been coughing painfully for the past one hour.

"Here, have some water," said Madison, bringing a cup of water to his lips. Richard resisted her hand, protesting that he wanted it boiled.

"Let us boil it. For now, have this," she said, quietly, offering her son with a loveable smile. Fate pursed her lips from uttering one word further.

Solomon unhooked his patched cloak that hung on the rusted hook on the wall.

"The umbrella," he told himself, "where is it?" He rushed to the closet, and threw it open. The black umbrella was seated right before his eyes. He carefully pulled it out, mindful not to disturb the other things piled over it.

"Will be back, Madison. Take care of Richard. Take care of your health, will you not, little warrior?" asked he, kissing his son on his forehead. He quickly realized that it was burning.

"Yes, father. Come home soon," replied Richard, and went into bouts of cough just as soon.

Solomon eyed him with pain. Every cough seemed to tug at his heart mercilessly. He stood rooted to the spot, looking at his sick son with unblinking eyes. Madison walked towards him.

"That is alright. A mild fever, that is all it is. Worry not, I will take care of him. You have to leave for work. The skies are still cloudy. It might rain any good time," she urged him, holding his right arm.

"Thanks."